


i'll scream it into the nothingness

by bottleredhead



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty beginning but fluffy end, Birthday Fluff, Body Worship, Love Confessions, M/M, Poetry, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, richard siken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first text comes at 12 AM sharp. Grantaire’s phone pings just as he’s opens a bottle of Jack Daniels, a tumbler waiting on the kitchen counter. He sets down the bottle gently, as though it’s a precious gem, and extricates the phone from his back pocket. The screen reads <i>text from Jehan</i>, and when he swipes it unlocked, a barrage of noise erupts and he almost drops the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll scream it into the nothingness

**Author's Note:**

> I'm 17! -celebrates- So I thought I'd write you guys some birthday fluff because I can't with these two idiots, anymore.
> 
> Happy birthday to me ;) and I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Un-beta'd but I'll read through it later. I just wanted it to post it while it was still my birthday :)

The first text comes at 12 AM sharp. Grantaire’s phone pings just as he’s opens a bottle of Jack Daniels, a tumbler waiting on the kitchen counter. He sets down the bottle gently, as though it’s a precious gem, and extricates the phone from his back pocket. The screen reads _text from Jehan_ , and when he swipes it unlocked, a barrage of noise erupts and he almost drops the phone.

Tightening his grip, Grantaire can see that the noise is actually a video of Despicable Me’s minions singing a nasal and adorable version of Happy Birthday. The video ends but the message is not over.

 **Jehan:** Happy, happy birthday, R! I love you! I wish you a prosperous year, my dearest friend, and there shall be cake soon. ;)

He’s barely managed a quick _thanks_ before his phone pings again, once, then twice, then four more times. The noise is loud in the otherwise silent apartment, and Grantaire pours himself a finger as he waits for the pinging to stop.

 **Bahorel:** happy bday, asshole. Bar crawl tmr i’ll drag you myself

 **Feuilly:** Happy Birthday, R. Have a good one. Bar crawl with Bahorel tomorrow?

 **Combeferre:** Grantaire, happy birthday. I wish you a wonderful year.

 **Cosette:** R! Happy birthday, darling! Enjoy your night ;) Marius wishes you a happy birthday, too!

 **Courfeyrac:** HAPPY BIRTHDAY R YOU SURVIVED ANOTHER YEAR WOOHOO ISN’T THAT COOL :D:D:D

 **Joly:** Happyyyy birthdaaaaay! Bossuet, Musichetta and I are wishing you the best! Also, Musichetta wants to know what flavour cake you’d like??? Be sure to take extra vitamins and drink lots of water if you’re drinking!!!

Each text message is unique in its tone, much like their senders. Bahorel’s is violently caring, much like a grizzly bear that’s intent on hugging you, while Feuilly’s tempers Bahorel while carrying its own calm forcefulness. Combeferre’s is measured yet genuine, Cosette’s (and Marius’) excited and effusive, Courfeyrac’s just batshit-crazy-loud-excited, a signature Courfeyrac mix if there ever was one. Joly’s, as usual, is worried and happy and cautioning all at once, accompanied by Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s wishes. 

Grantaire is smiling at his friends’ antics as he sends a mass reply of _thanks guys_. He also sends Musichetta _the fact that you have to ask makes me wonder how we’re even friends_. She replies with a stream of emoticons and winking smileys. 

There’s a warm feeling in his chest from his friends’ messages, and the sole, tiny optimistic voice in his head murmurs, _see, they care about you_.

By the time he glances at his phone again, it’s 1:30 AM and his notification light is blinking. There are three quarters of Jack left, but he isn’t feeling the itch to get drunk.

 **Eponine:** Happy birthday, R! One year older, fucker, how does it feel to know that you’re quickly becoming a senior citizen? :P x

 **Grantaire:** Thanks. And fuck you, I’ll have you know that I’m a child at heart.

 **Eponine:** And at mind, apparently. Bahorel mentioned a bar crawl? We better go. It’s been a shitty week.

The exchange texts for a while, until the sky is getting brighter and Eponine has to sleep for a few hours before her 8 AM shift at the writing centre. 

Grantaire would be lying if he says he isn’t disappointed when no text from Enjolras arrives. 

*

Noon comes quickly and brightly, and Grantaire groans as he turns over to move away from the sunshine streaming through his open blinds. He watches the dust motes swirl in the light for a while, turning golden and then disappearing as they float around. There is no sound in the apartment apart from the noise of the outside world filtering in, the contentment from last night having faded to his usual birthday melancholia. 

His body feels light and foreign as he pads to the kitchen, his mind filled with warring images of birthdays spent with his sister and others spent with the company of a bottle (or five). The coffee machine is loud as it spits out bitter coffee, black (like his soul, he likes to say) and wonderfully caffeinated.

The thing about birthdays, Grantaire muses, is that they very rarely are happy when it comes to him. On his sixteenth birthday, his father kicked him out when he found out about his sexual orientation. On his eighteenth birthday, his first long-term boyfriend dumped him. His sister moved to London a few weeks before his twentieth birthday, and now, twenty-one and about to graduate from art school, he is lonelier than ever despite having a cadre of amazing friends. Maybe other people aren’t the problem; maybe he is. After all, what’s the common factor in all the shitty birthdays?

“Fuck that,” he murmurs, throwing the coffee mug in the sink. He’s depressing himself, and when Grantaire gets like this, when his thoughts turn dark and the thought of ending everything seems more and more appealing, he has to distract himself or end up following through with the morbid thoughts. No, he’s better of getting a head start on his commissions. 

*

Grantaire has no idea what time it is when he finally drops the brush and steps back from the canvas propped in front of him. His hands are a riot of colour, patches of half-dried and flaking paint streaking his skin like a living thing. His pants are a lost cause, he thinks upon looking down, but at least he’s not going to have to throw out another shirt, at least, since sometime during his painting daze he’d stripped out of the wifebeater. 

Stepping out of the spare room he uses as a studio, he’s met with the strangest sight.

Tall candles flicker cheerily, casting orange shadows on the walls with their flames. A bottle of wine rests in a silver cooler, standing a short distance from Grantaire’s small, never-used dining table, which is set for two people with white china plates and empty wine glasses. A few dishes line the kitchen counter, delicious aromas wafting over to where Grantaire stands in shock. Soft violin music float through a pair of speakers set up in the corner of the living room.

Perhaps most astonishing, however, more than the fact that it seems as though some kind of benevolent not-thief snuck into his apartment and set up a romantic dinner, is Enjolras curled up in Grantaire’s favourite armchair, reading.

“Is it just me, or does something seem out of place?” Grantaire drawls, leaning his hip against the kitchen island. He’s careful to keep the surprise out of his face, but internally, he’s freaking out. What is going on?

If Enjolras is startled by his sudden appearance, he doesn’t show it. He does frown, however, when he takes in Grantaire’s state of post-painting mess. “Shower, please. But quickly, before the food goes cold.”

Raising an eyebrow at Enjolras doesn’t faze the man. He goes back to reading, a clear dismissal. Shrugging, Grantaire walks into the bathroom and strips, stepping under the warm spray of water. The water swirls down the drain in a kaleidoscope of colour, but he’s mostly clean when the water starts running cold.

Back in the living room, Enjolras is still reading, but he does give Grantaire an approving look when he takes in the paint-free skin and clean clothes.

“So, what’s up?” Grantaire asks. He’s not saying he’s desperate for an answer (he is), but he’s morbidly curious about the dinner and the presence of Enjolras in his apartment. When did he get here? How did he even get in?

“You were painting when I arrived,” Enjolras says, answering Grantaire’s unspoken questions. Grantaire blinks, surprised. Is Enjolras a mind reader too, now? Was being a determined social justice activist not enough? “Jehan lent me his keys. Bahorel postponed the bar crawl until tomorrow. Now, will you have dinner with me?”

Grantaire can do nothing but follow Enjolras to the table, where the candlelight catches Enjolras’ golden curls and makes them gleam like an unearthly halo. Grantaire’s fingers itch for his paints; immortalizing the way Enjolras looks in the soft lighting is a must. He realises he’s staring when Enjolras’ painfully blue eyes meet his. They gleam with serenity, incredibly bright when in direct light and Grantaire feels like he’s burning underneath the fierce gaze. It doesn’t matter what Enjolras is doing; his gaze is always intense.

Enjolras smiles at him softly, and wow, this must be what a heart attack is like, Grantaire thinks dimly through the pounding of his heart. He’s sure Enjolras must hear it, and he’d die of embarrassment if he wasn’t fucking glowing with happiness at having that glorious smile directed at him. It’s rare (if ever) that Grantaire is worthy of a smile from Enjolras.

“Happy birthday, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, his voice as soft as his smile, full of such a tender emotion that Grantaire can’t – won’t – put a name to. He feels a blush rising on his cheeks, ducking his head to try to hide it.

“Thank you,” he breathes out. He can still feel Enjolras’ gaze on him, and it’s disconcerting to have those beautiful eyes on him for an extended period of time that does not include a heated argument. What’s stranger is that Enjolras doesn’t look like he’s being put up to this by their friends – no, he seems to be doing this of his own accord, and Grantaire would wonder if Enjolras is concussed but then Enjolras is reaching forward, toward Grantaire, and his breath catches in his throat in anticipation, but Enjolras is only reaching for the bottle of wine.

The sound of wine splashing into the glasses is loud in the comfortable silence (since when can they even be silent in each other’s company, let alone comfortable? They’ve never gone for more than five minutes in peace, and Grantaire might be in love with Enjolras in a forever-and-ever way, but he’s physically incapable of being serene in the presence of Enjolras and his _ideals_ ). It’s the good wine, Grantaire can tell, not the cheap booze he usually indulges in. A sip confirms the thought, his mouth flooded with aromatic fruit and the barest hint of smoke. It’s a flavour mix that surprisingly works.

Enjolras is still smiling at him, though, and Grantaire is seriously starting to wonder if the blond was hit on the head or something, today, because the expression is so un-Enjolras-like that it’s just. Plain. Weird.

“Okay, this is weird,” Enjolras mutters, and Grantaire supposes he should be affronted that Enjolras never told him that he’s a mind reader but the words coming out of Enjolras’ mind next erase all thoughts of being offended. “Grantaire, I’m in love with you.”

“What.”

“I’m in love with you,” Enjolras repeats.

“….What?”

“I’m in _love_ with you. How many times do I have to say it?”

Grantaire blinks. “I’m sure that somewhere in that giant, brilliant brain of yours, you think you’re making sense, but I’d like to inform you that you’re not make one iota of sense. In fact, you’re the farthest thing from making sense. Were you in an accident? Are you dying? Oh God, am I dying and you’re trying to make my last days on earth worthwhile by pretending to be in love with me? Because I must tell you, that might seem like a noble deed and all, but I’d rather have the truth-”

“Grantaire!” Enjolras interrupts him, looking both amused and frustrated. “They told me you’d do this.”

“Who told you what?” he asks in a high, panicking voice, because this is _not_ how he’d imagined his twenty-first birthday going. He never even imagined Enjolras uttering those words to him – why waste time fantasising when it would probably never happen, was his reasoning, and look a what’s happening now. “Am I in some kind of parallel universe?”

“Our friends. Jehan, Combeferre, even Bahorel said you wouldn’t believe me. Which I understand, really, you think I’m an android and have said so many times over. But I’m not. And I’m in love with you.” Enjolras’ expression is painfully earnest. “I’m in love with you and I want you to know it. I’ve wanted to tell you for months, actually, but I never found the right time. I know how you get on your birthday, so I thought it would be perfect.

I’ve been in love with you ever since that day you fell out of my window and fractured your wrist. You were bleeding so much from that cut on your forehead, and amid all the panicking I remember thinking ‘I told him not to use the fire escape. I told him he’ll fall to his death.’ But you never listen, do you? You never listen, and apparently I don’t either, since I went ahead and fucking fell for you, just like you fell off that damn fire escape. I drove you to the hospital – you got blood all over my upholstery, you know.”

“I know, you wouldn’t let me forget it for a month, you douche,” Grantaire hears someone say through his daze, and realises with a jolt that it’s him.

“ _While you were sitting in the backseat, smoking a cigarette you thought would be your last, I was falling deeply, deeply in love with you._ ”

“Did you just quote Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes at me?”

“Yes.”

“You dork.”

But the other lyrics of the song come floating across Grantaire’s brain, and he can’t help but get up from the table and walk the short distance to Enjolras. His hands, with a mind of their own, frame Enjolras’s face and tilt it towards him.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Grantaire whispers, his breath blowing across Enjolras’ lips. Enjolras opens his mouth, sucking in the air that was inside Grantaire, and it’s so intimate for such a simple thing, that Grantaire can’t help but run his nose across the delicate skin underneath Enjolras’ jaw. His scent, a heady musk that’s entirely _Enjolras_ envelopes Grantaire welcomingly. The skin underneath his nose is fragile and soft, begging for Grantaire’s lips and teeth. So he presses his teeth against Enjolras’ pulse point, gently, so gently, and then scrapes his teeth across the same spot only to feel it jump wildly.

“I thought,” Enjolras exhales the words, voice breathy. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“Bossy.” Grantaire punctuates the word with a bite that has blood blooming underneath the surface of Enjolras’ skin. “I love you, too.”

The kiss is soft, impossibly tender, unlike what Grantaire had imagined kissing Enjolras would be. There is an underlying sweetness that is more than just the leftover taste of wine, and Grantaire has only had a couple of sips, but he feels drunk. Sharp giddiness is rushing through his veins, burning away all the melancholia that floods his system every year on this day. He’s happy, indescribably so, and he can’t even bring himself to heed the voice that harshly whispers that this will never last, mostly because this is Grantaire and Grantaire can’t have nice things.

Enjolras’ lips are plush against his, demanding and giving in equal measures. Their touch sparks heat through Grantaire, warming every cold part of him and setting him alight. He’s like an addict who can’t get enough, following Enjolras’ lips’ every move with the zeal of an eager student. 

When they pull away to seek air, Grantaire can’t help but thread his fingers in those golden curls of Enjolras’. They feel lovely under his fingers, lush loops of the sun made to look like hair. Enjolras’ fingers are buried in the hair at the base of his neck, his nails scraping against Grantaire’s skull with enough pressure to cause electricity to shoot down his spine. His skin feels like it’s sparking, his body a live wire that’s bare of insulation. One touch from Enjolras and they’ll both go out with a puff of smoke.

“I’m in love with you,” Enjolras whispers, voice hushed, and it sends chills down Grantaire’s back. “I’ve loved you for so long, yet it seems like such a short time too, and I don’t know how to go on letting you think that you’re not loved.”

Unbidden, tears spring to Grantaire’s eyes. He’s heard these words before, from friends and family and boyfriends, but he never let himself believe them. Whenever a relationship would start getting serious, he would knowingly sabotage it, because he’s self-destructive and he knows that it’s better to destroy what you love before it destroys you. It’s easier to self-destruct than trust someone else with yourself. But listening to Enjolras say the same thing he’s heard time and time again before is different. Enjolras is full of conviction, like with everything he believes in, and he is giving himself wholly over to Grantaire with those words. Enjolras believes in him. Enjolras _believes_ in _him_. It’s the greatest gift he’s ever been given and the biggest responsibility that’s ever been placed on his shoulder, and he’s so frightened of fucking this up that he ends up crying harder.

“Please don’t cry,” Enjolras murmurs, his fingertips catching the tears at the corners of Grantaire’s eyes. They stay pressed there, moisture gathering around them and dripping down Grantaire’s face hotly. “Please don’t. Unless those are happy tears.”

Then Enjolras is hugging him, arms wrapped around him tight. Enjolras’ body is pressed to his tightly, and it isn’t even vaguely sexual, but it’s the best sensation in the world, to be so enveloped by Enjolras. 

“You smell good,” Grantaire whispers into Enjolras’ hair.

Enjolras huffs out a laugh, which flutters the hairs at the top of Grantaire’s head. “And you smell like paint and turpentine. You smell like charcoal and paper and wine. It’s so uniquely you, Grantaire. It’s soothing.”

“Sappy.”

“Snarky. Our food’s gotten cold.”

Grantaire finally pulls away from Enjolras’ arms to look at the dishes still on the kitchen counter. “You don’t cook.”

“I had Combeferre make us your favourites,” Enjolras admits, and ah yes, that makes sense. The only thing Enjolras can cook is ramen noodles, and that too is fifty-fifty most times.

Grantaire smiles. Despite the earlier tears and the deep fear that he’s going to screw this up horribly and beyond repair, he’s _happy_ like he hasn’t been in a long time. “We’ll re-heat it later. Come with me.”

Enjolras, responsible citizen that he is, makes a point of blowing out the candles (how can such an innocent action be so provocative, Grantaire has no idea), before following Grantaire into the bedroom. 

*

Later, as they lie in bed, fucked out and sated, Grantaire writes a question on Enjolras’ back. “You said you fell in love with me in the car?”

Enjolras hums contentedly in response, burrowing closer into Grantaire’s side. “I wanted to tell you I loved you the moment I realised.”

Grantaire laughs at that, softly, unwilling to shatter the mood. “You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you.” His murmurs are accompanied by his trailing fingers, drawing the words across the skin of Enjolras’ naked back. “And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired.”

Enjolras grip tightens as Grantaire’s quiet, lyrical voice fills the room, the words drifting to mingle with the scent of lovemaking and sex. 

“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and touches you,” and here Grantaire’s finger dip into the elegant slope of Enjolras’ spine, feeling the bones shiver underneath his touch, “like a prayer for which no words exist,” and Enjolras is mouthing at the skin of Grantaire’s shoulder with quiet intention, “and you feel your heart take root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”

“I loved you then, when I was bleeding in the back of your car and you were wearing that stoic mask you always put on when you’re internally panicking,” Grantaire says after a stretch of silence. “I have always loved you.”

“I love you,” Enjolras whispers against Grantaire’s Adam’s apple. “I love you,” he whispers against Grantaire’s collarbone. “I love you,” he whispers down Grantaire’s chest. “I love you,” he presses to the scars just inside Grantaire’s fine-turned wrist. “I love you,” he whispers at every juncture and every spot until he brands the word into Grantaire’s skin with sheer will power.

“I love you,” he says finally, pressing the words to Grantaire’s lips with unshakeable conviction.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very welcome, and I hope you enjoyed this fic!
> 
> Enjolras quotes a line from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zero's '[Home](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjFaenf1T-Y)', from which the title also comes. Grantaire quotes [Siken](http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/55349.Richard_Siken) at Enjolras while they're in bed.
> 
> [This](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOhAnuPtduU) is the music video Jehan sends Grantaire for his birthday.


End file.
